


Maybe

by TheLynx



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Borderline Personality Disorder, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, Nonbinary Character, Other, Recovery, Self-Harm, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:06:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4231635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLynx/pseuds/TheLynx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’m a coward and he can’t see that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> **Very strong trigger warning** for self-harm and food restriction; please only read if you can manage descriptions. (There is no mention of suicide or suicide ideation.)
> 
> Written as a cathartic piece.

He captures my lips in a kiss: Warm, tender, soft. Gentle movement, light nips at my mouth, tame exploration. Most people might think he is all rough and violent, but that isn’t him at all, not when it comes to intimacy. Unless I ask, that is. Lately, he’s been softer.

I moan into him; he knows exactly how to make me react in certain ways, and this time he wants to bring me to bed. We’ve been away from Skyhold for far too long, with no proper bed to make use of and none of the interesting tools we’ve acquired. I almost want to sleep with him, let him fuck me until I can’t remember my name, but…

“No,” I whisper against his lips, his cheek rough against mine. I can feel both of us stiffening, but fear and shame rush through me. It shouldn’t; I love him, I trust him, but I cannot meet his eye. “Not today, Bull.”

He pulls his head back and looks down at me, hands still resting on my waist. “What is it, kadan?” he asks, and I want to tell him. I’ve trusted him so far—shouldn’t he know? But the words stick in my throat and I can only shake my head.

His frown deepens, and I see the lines on his face more clearly than ever before. “Is it Orlais? Something about the Winter Palace? Did someone—”

“Katoh,” I interrupt, the word slipping out of my clenched throat effortlessly, little more than a breath into the space between us, but he hears it. I feel guilty, dirty for using it, just because I am afraid to confide in him. Afraid he will look at me with disappointment, leave me for someone who is stronger. Put all of this behind him as some fun little fling.

He is confused, I can tell. I’ve worked hard to make myself look happy lately. As happy as one can be, all things considered. Did I fool him that well over the past few weeks?

Probably not.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

Another shake of my head, which has now lowered, I realize as I stare at his stomach, dragon tooth necklace dangling above it. I want to say yes, want him to hug me and fuck me and kiss me, tell me I mean the world to him and make me feel like everything’s going to be okay.

He removes his hands from my hips and I feel like he’s torn away a part of my soul.

“Kadan…” He places a finger under my chin, intending to tilt my head up to look at him, and I panic.

“Katoh.”

I regret it for the second time this evening, but he lets go.

“Okay, Cyrnarel.” His voice is still soft, but it hurts. It’s unreasonable to be upset; I never mind him using my name; but he was saying _kadan_ a moment ago and now he’s not and that makes my heart ache. “I’ll leave you alone now, but if you need me, you know where I’ll be.”

He starts to leave. I want to call him back, I need him now, why can’t he see that? But I don’t, and he is gone, and I am alone.

* * *

 

It’s been a week now. I always panic and worry when Bull tries to talk to me. I want to scream at him: “Just leave me now, can’t you see I’m useless? That I’m too weak to open my heart for you?” Instead I run, or I speak to him briskly, or I say _katoh_.

I’m a coward and he can’t see that. Or maybe he does, but he won’t let up until I say it, or until he’s proven I’m broken beyond what he can fix.

A laugh escapes me, bubbling up and escaping into my empty, dark room. It comes out as a sob, but my eyes are dry.

Maybe he’s waiting until I cry.

It doesn’t seem to matter. I’ve stopped crying from my eyes. Now my tears are red, I think to myself, and all it takes is a little flash of silver for them to show up. Lately they’re more than that—they’re like little rivers running down my arms, trickling out from laughing mouths before I sew them back up.

Sometimes I don’t sew them. I don’t like the pain of the needle, only the pain of the dulled blade I keep. The scars are worse then, but that’s all my arms have been for years now, hardly any flat skin on them anymore. They hurt more when I don’t treat them well, aching into the next day when I practice with my daggers.

Maybe he wants to watch me destroy myself. Maybe he knows what I’m doing, what I’m hiding. That I’ve started again. That I don’t eat my meals elsewhere, but instead skip them entirely. That I’ve been losing weight and my armor doesn’t fit that well anymore.

He hasn’t seen me naked or shirtless for a month now. Would my body disgust him? Did it already do so before, but he never said anything about it?

I hear the click of the door and my heart speeds up. I glance towards the windows—when did it get so dark? Hurriedly I shove my sleeve back down, smudging the blood, and stand up from the floor to put the knife on my desk.

“Hey, kadan,” Iron Bull calls, voice cheerful as ever. He still sleeps in my bed, although I wear a full set of nightclothes. No doubt he’s noticed. “How’s today been?”

I haven’t answered that question in a week. Either he doesn’t mind or he’s rubbing salt in a wound.

I would turn to face him, at least give him half a smile, but my legs are too weak and I lean heavily on the desk. The short movement has stolen my breath from me and I grit my teeth in frustration. More weakness. More failure.

“Kadan?”

I feel dizzy, even standing so still, and he walks up beside me, but does not touch.

He holds out a hand, palm up, which I see out the corner of my eye. “Cyrn, let’s get you into bed, alright? You need to sit down.”

Am I shaking? I might be. But my body won’t listen to me. I can’t move to take his hand. I try to nod—I don’t know if I succeed—and I say “Yes.”

He guides me to the bed, supporting my weight and helping me into bed, stacking pillows so that I am half-sitting. He sits next to me, on my left, his good eye able to see me clearly, and he pulls a box from the bedside table next to him.

“We need to talk,” he says, and I flinch. “I know you’re not feeling well right now, and I want to help you. First, will you let me stitch you up?”

Confusion must be clear on my face, because he gestures towards my left arm. I follow the motion and see that I’ve bled through my clothing, deep red liquid smearing across the lines of my hand.

“Can I remove your shirt?” he asks, and I nod. He knows. He can show his disappointment now.

The needle stings, but I am used to it. I make a noise of protest when he starts applying an elfroot salve. “It has to hurt,” I manage to say.

“Not this time,” he says, and I let him continue.

He can see them all now. The new scars from this past month, different shades of pink and red all along my arms and shoulders. Some on my hip. Some on my legs, where he can’t see but can probably guess. He has a sharp eye—no doubt he can tell I’ve lost some fat off my stomach and arms as well. I had little enough to start with.

“Can I hug you?” he asks, and I nod again. He pulls me against his chest and I sigh. I don’t have to look at his face like this. I can pretend things are okay, that he won’t leave me.

“When was the last time you ate?” He’s holding my hand in his now. It’s nice. Familiar. We haven’t done this in a while. His other hand rests on my waist, touching scars but not moving.

“Yesterday,” I mumble, ashamed. I think it was yesterday, maybe in the morning. What use am I to the Inquisition if I can’t even feed myself?

“If I bring you something now, will you eat it?” His voice rumbles deep in his chest like a lullaby.

“Stay.” I grip his hand tightly, shaking again. “Don’t leave me.”

His thumb strokes circles over the palm of my hand. “I’m not leaving you, kadan. I will never leave you.”

I shake my head. “I’m weak,” I rasp out. “Look what I’ve done to myself. I’ve ruined my body, and I’m ruining it more.”

He kisses the back of my head. “You’re hurting,” he says. “I don’t know why you’re hurting, but damnit, I want to help you get better. I’ve watched you silently tear yourself apart for weeks now, and I want to destroy whatever it is that made you feel this way. But it’s the Inquisition, isn’t it? The responsibility, the politics, the demons, the humans… it’s getting to you, really bad.”

“Yeah.” I feel raw, like my skin has been stripped away. “I want to go home.”

He kisses me again. At least I don’t have to look at him. He says pretty words, but how could he possibly still want me?

“Kadan, do you know how much you mean to me?”

I consider staying silent, but I voice my fear anyway. “Nothing. I mean nothing to you.”

His hand stops. “You mean everything to me. You mean more to me than Orlais, than the Inquisition, than the Chargers. I’ve followed you into the Fade itself—and you know what? I’d do it again if I had to, demons be damned. And when we take down Corypheus, I will be right there with you, shoving an axe in his face to make him pay for what he’s done to you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

He tilts my head now, kissing my cheek before letting me lean back against his chest again. “I mean every word of it. I love you, Cyrnarel, fiercely and fully. I just ask that you let me show you.”

I’m too tired to respond, too tired to argue, and soon enough I am fast asleep against him, cradled in his arms.

* * *

 

In the morning I wake before him, feeling just as tired as I had before falling asleep. The mountain air is cold, but the whole world feels cold to me lately.

I find my knife waiting for me on my desk, not properly put away, and I am reminded of the events last night with a grimace, hand touching my chest and finding myself shirtless. The blade has been my morning as well as evening companion for a while now, and already I crave its caress again.

But I squint in the pre-dawn light down at the desk and I see a covered platter and glass of water next to the knife. It doesn’t smell of anything, but I let my curiosity get the better of me and lift the lid.

It’s a meager meal that sits on the platter: A few pieces of bread, a piece of salted meat, and an apple. Too small for Bull to bother with; he would down it in seconds.

I look again at my knife. It remains dull, but it is now clean, shining and absent of any hint of blood.

He still snores in bed behind me. For a while I dreaded that sound, feared that I might someday lose it, lose him. I still haven’t let go of those fears.

Maybe he does care for me. Maybe he won’t leave.

Maybe I can let him help.

**Author's Note:**

> Cyrnarel uses he/they pronouns and has no specific gender, if you decide to reference them in your comments.


End file.
